


Hunt the Hunter

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-14
Updated: 2008-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hears the hounds, and thinks he's found a solution to Dean's problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunt the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> I've played fast and loose with the mythology here to suit the needs of my story. Thanks to devildoll and luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Any errors remaining are mine.

"I thought you said it was trained," Sam says, glaring at Bobby as he wraps Dean's bleeding hand. "You sure it's not some kind of hellhound?"

Bobby sighs. "She didn't mean it. She thought he was playing. Thought he was just another littermate."

Dean snorts, but Sam isn't finding any of this funny. "We're going to the hospital."

"Jesus, Sam, you've sewn up worse--" Dean starts, but Sam's glare shuts him down. Sam doesn't want to look at the teeth marks in Dean's torn flesh, doesn't want to remember the Tuesday in Florida when a sweet golden retriever ripped Dean's throat out, or think about how in a week or so, it won't be Bobby's half-trained, half-grown puppy taking chunks out of Dean's arm, and no amount of stitches will put him back together again.

"Let's go," he says, hearing his father in his voice. Dean hears it too, because he straightens for a moment before he realizes what he's doing. "And I'm driving," Sam adds.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

*

Sam doesn't want to leave Dean alone, but once Dean starts flirting with the nurse, Sam knows he's all right. After a few minutes, Sam has to walk out of the small examination room where Dean's being stitched up, get some air that doesn't smell of antiseptic and blood.

The vending machine eats his dollar and doesn't give him the pack of Twizzlers he wants. He leans his forearm against the warm glass, and his head against his forearm, wondering if he can tilt the machine forward enough to release the candy from its grip.

There are two older men in the corridor, one in a wheelchair, trailing an oxygen tank, the other with an eye patch and a prosthetic arm.

"You sure about this, Walter?" eye patch guy says.

"Wouldn't be here if I weren't," Walter answers. "Tonight?"

"Yeah," eye patch guy says. He glares at Sam. "You done with that vending machine?" He doesn't say boy, but Sam hears it, just the same.

This time, it's Sam who straightens automatically at the tone of the man's voice, which reminds him of his father. "Yes, sir."

Sam steps away and eye patch guy steps in. He hits the machine with his good arm and holds out the Twizzlers. "I think these are yours."

"Thanks."

The guy grins at him and Sam smiles in return. He rips open the plastic as he walks back to the exam room, where Dean is all bandaged up and pocketing the nurse's phone number, though they both know he'll never call her. Sam would like to make sure he could if he wanted to, whenever they're visiting Bobby--next week or next month or next year--and the thought that soon, Dean will be gone, makes his stomach clench. He pockets the Twizzlers, sweet turning sour in his mouth.

*

They stay up late, Dean and Bobby talking cars and Sam sitting with a book in his lap, just like they used to when they were kids. Except that now he's reading a dusty old grimoire instead of the Hardy Boys.

Bobby stands up, stretches, and opens his mouth to speak when they hear it, a sound like howling on the wind. It raises the hair on the back of Sam's neck, makes his skin prickle in fear. Even in the dim light, he can see Dean go pale.

"What--Bobby, what is that?" Sam says, as Bobby goes to the windows, makes sure they're shut up tight, unbroken salt lines on all the sills.

Dean shoots him a startled glance. "You can hear it."

"I think--" Sam is going to say the dead, but stops himself, "everyone within a twenty mile radius can hear that racket."

"There's been talk of reintroducing wolves up here," Bobby says, "but I didn't think they'd gone ahead and done it."

"So it's just wolves, not," Dean gestures with one hand, "hellhounds?"

"Wolves, or wild dogs, maybe," Bobby says, but he doesn't sound convinced. "Sam and I wouldn't hear the other."

They turn in after that, but they don't get much sleep.

*

Dean's making coffee and Bobby's out with the dogs when the phone rings. Sam looks at Dean, who shrugs. The phone stops after four rings and starts up again, shrill in the silence.

They stare at each other as it rings, neither of them wanting to pick it up, and Sam remembers the days they used to fight over who'd get to answer the phone, and then later, how he'd pretended he didn't care when Dad called, but always hovered close, listening to Dean talk to him.

Bobby bangs in through the front door, shaking his head and muttering, "Idiots," before picking up the handset and barking, "Singer Salvage" into it. Dean shrugs again and turns back to the coffee pot, mug in hand, but Sam watches the amused exasperation fade from Bobby's face, replaced by solemnity. "I'm sorry to hear that, Greta. He was a good man." Bobby holds out a hand and Dean offers him the mug of coffee, but he waves that off. Sam hands him a pen and a napkin instead. "And Walt McBride, too? No?" He sighs. "Okay, yeah. I'll stop in at the hospital to see Irene. Take care, Greta. And I'm sorry about your dad."

He hangs up, pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, "You boys up for another trip to the hospital?"

Sam's not, really, but Dean tilts his head and purses his lips, which means he doesn't want to go either, but they're going to anyway. Sam bites back a sigh of his own and says, "Sure, Bobby. Whatever you need."

*

Greta Muller is five feet ten inches of Nordic goddess, and under normal circumstances, Sam knows that Dean would be gallantly (well, for certain definitions of gallant that have never made it into the dictionary) offering to console her in her time of mourning (and Sam might be making him choose for the honor), but today he simply stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking awkward and disgruntled as she cries. They've spent their lives talking to grieving family members (_being_ grieving family members, but Sam's not going to think about that now), so they should be good at it, but Dean's always been crap with crying women, and Greta is no exception.

Bobby's talking to Mrs. Muller and another woman he introduces as Irene McBride. Walt turns out to be the guy with the oxygen tank, who is now, according to his wife, in a coma.

Whatever he and eye patch guy had been planning for last night, Sam has a feeling this wasn't it.

Sam steps into the hospital room, sees Walt in his bed, hooked up to various beeping machines. The window next to the bed is open just enough that the spring breeze stirs the flimsy white curtain. The small bit of fresh air coming in doesn't really cover the scent of sickness in the room, though there's something else in the air as well, something familiar and out of place here.

Then again, maybe this was all part of the plan, and it just didn't go as expected. Sam's found that rituals performed by amateurs rarely do.

He catches Dean's eye, and Dean pushes off from the wall he's been silently holding up and joins Sam in the room, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You smell that?"

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Smells like sick old man, Sammy."

Sam purses his lips, because Walt is probably Bobby's age, no older. "And?"

"Witch hazel, maybe?" Dean takes a deep breath, paying attention now. "Sage?" He rubs his nose in surprise. "Huh."

Bobby's still talking to the Mullers and Mrs. McBride, so Sam steps closer to the open window, on alert now. He points to green smudges on the windowsill, and tilts his head at Dean. "Writing of some sort? Maybe runes?" He's getting ready to squat down to take a closer look when eye patch guy comes into the room.

"What the hell do you want?"

"We're friends of Bobby's," Dean says, stepping between the guy and Sam. "I'm Dean, and this is my brother, Sam."

"Karl Ranstad." The guy shakes their hands reluctantly, and Sam forces himself not to stare at the prosthetic. He nudges Dean to make sure he doesn't say anything stupid. "Walt was my roommate this time around."

"What happened to him?" Sam asks, glancing at Walt and his entourage of beeping machines.

"The Viet Cong happened to him," Karl says. "Happened to me, too."

"So you didn't see or hear anything strange or unusual last night? The window's open. Maybe something from the parking lot?"

Karl moves over to his bed, leans against it. "No. I was asleep until Walt's monitor started going crazy."

"You're sure?"

"I'm missing an arm and an eye, son, but I'm not deaf," Karl replies, waving his prosthetic hand at Sam in annoyance. But he doesn't meet Sam's gaze, and Sam knows he's lying.

*

They stop in the cafeteria on the way out to get coffee for the ride home. It's surprisingly decent. Sam takes another sip, trying to figure out what's going on and listen to Bobby and Dean's conversation at the same time. There's something both weird and familiar about sitting in the backseat of the car; he remembers how impatient he was to be able to drive her, and now he just wants Dean to stay behind the wheel forever.

"Walt didn't leave a DNR and Irene doesn't want to pull the plug," Bobby is saying.

"You can't blame her," Sam says. She doesn't even know what they know.

"That's not living, Sammy. She's not doing him any favors."

"Dean."

Dean shakes his head, changes the subject. "You were in Nam with these guys, Bobby?"

"No. We met through the VA, but they all live in town. Joe Muller owns--owned--the diner, Walt was the librarian before his emphysema forced him to retire, and Karl teaches chemistry at the high school." Bobby takes his cap off and rubs a hand over his scalp. "They're good men. We used to have a monthly card game at Gallagher's."

"Poker?" Dean says, with the flash of a grin, and for a second, Sam can forget how little time he has left. "Bobby, you been holding out on me?"

Bobby grins back, shaking his head. "You think I'd let you fleece my neighbors? But Tip passed a few months ago, and it just wasn't the same."

"Tip?" Sam asks.

"Tip Gallagher. Went in his sleep, right before Christmas." Bobby takes another sip of coffee.

"Hey, can you drop me at the library?" Sam says.

"Bobby doesn't have enough books for you?" Dean looks at him in the rearview mirror and Sam gives him a tight, pleading grin. "Okay, geek boy. Call me when you're done."

Sam nods and gets out when the car rolls to a halt.

*

It doesn't take long to find what he's looking for. The current librarian is willing to talk about Walt and Karl and the others Bobby'd mentioned, and Sam finds the obituaries easily enough--Tip Gallagher in December and Ray Olmstead in February. Both died quietly in their sleep. Both times, he discovers, the local animal control office recorded a number of calls about wild dogs or wolves in the area, though no wolves--or physical evidence of wolves--were actually found.

He calls a cab and heads back to the hospital to confront Karl.

"How did you do it?"

Karl looks up from his lunch tray. "Do what?"

"Call the hunt. An offering of mead? Is there an invocation?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, son, and if you don't leave me be, I'll call security."

"We heard the hounds last night, Karl." He goes to the window. "And you burned sage and wrote runes on the windowsill."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, I don't want to cause you any trouble. I just need to know how you did it." His desperation leaks through in his voice, the way he's leaning forward, as if the answer is right within reach, if only Karl will give it to him.

He must be convincing, because Karl sets his Jell-o aside and says, "Okay. I can tell you, but I can't guarantee they'll come."

*

Since they were up early, and didn't sleep the night before, it's easy enough to convince Dean and Bobby to head to bed early.

Sam waits until Dean's breathing is slow and even, and then he gathers the supplies he picked up that afternoon--beer, to stand in for mead, which he couldn't find on short notice, a pile of sunflower seeds from Dean's secret stash, and a handful of dirt from the backyard in Tupperware bowls from Bobby's kitchen.

He sets the bowls down in a semicircle and chalks the runes on the windowsill, and a circle on the floor, yellow votives flickering at the cardinal points. He wipes the chalk dust on his pants and sits down beneath the window. He's got the sage in one hand and Dean's lighter in the other when the floor creaks and then Dean is standing over him, hair sticking up in all directions and arms crossed over his chest. Shit.

"Is there some reason you're getting your Wicca on tonight, Sammy?"

Sam takes a deep breath, wills himself to stay calm. "I think I've found a way to save you."

"Sam--"

"No, Dean, listen. Those dogs we heard last night--that was the wild hunt. Karl Ranstad's been summoning it to take his friends away when they're ready to die."

"What?"

"There are dozens, if not hundreds, of versions of the story. Almost every culture in the world has one, Dean. Odin, Herne the Hunter, even King Arthur was said to lead the wild hunt in some versions. The lore says that the hunt takes the souls of soldiers wounded in battle."

"I'm not a soldier, and I'm not wounded."

"You are. You have been." He tries not to think about how he's used the word as an insult, how he's refused to ever think of himself in those terms.

"Sam." Dean's voice is low, skeptical and warning. Sam hates that tone.

"This is the answer, Dean. It's not ideal, but it should work. We can keep your soul out of hell and your body alive until I can find the Colt and kill Lilith." The words tumble out breathlessly, and he holds Dean's gaze, trying to will him into seeing things his way. "Once Lilith is gone, I can use the Colt to, uh, persuade Cernunnos to set you free."

"You're gonna just do this? Without asking me what I want?"

"You didn't exactly ask me how I felt about you selling your soul for me."

"You weren't exactly in a position to be asked." Dean scrubs a hand across his face, through his already messy hair. "Goddammit, Sam. I don't want to end up a vegetable, lying in a hospital bed for the next fifty years after you get yourself killed trying to fight Lilith." He huffs a soft, disbelieving laugh. "I won't even be able to appreciate the hot nurses giving me sponge baths."

"But you won't be in hell." Sam sets his jaw, thrusts his chin out defiantly, the way he used to when he argued with Dad. He starts chanting before Dean can continue the argument. He stumbles only a little over the pronunciation. When he's done, he lights the sage and drops it into another bowl--stoneware this time, so it won't melt.

Nothing happens.

Sam slumps in defeat. Dean steps closer--both feet inside the circle now--and puts a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam looks up at him with eyes stinging slightly from the smoking sage; the color is leached from Dean's skin by the weak light of the moon, his white t-shirt ghostly in the darkness. Sam opens his mouth to apologize, to beg him not to die, to make him promise to stay.

That's when the world shifts beneath them. He hears Dean's muttered, "What the fuck?" and then the baying of the hounds. Exhilaration uncurls in his belly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes in gratitude.

He opens them to see that they're standing in a forest, the likes of which hasn't been seen in South Dakota in ages. The scent of pine surrounds them, and their breath frosts in the chilly air.

Dean's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Sam?"

"Let me do the talking," Sam says.

Dean sighs, but doesn't let go of him, and doesn't argue. All signs that he's freaked out, which is good, because it means he might be less likely to resist when Sam makes his request.

The dogs appear first, sleek, well-fed hounds that sniff at them with interest as the hunting party arrives.

There are dark humanoid shapes on the horses, which snort and stamp and toss their heads, eager to be off, but Sam can't make out any faces. He's pretty sure that's a good thing. Then the ranks open and a man crowned with horns rides through, his horse bigger and blacker than all the others. His beard is as dark and rich as the soil beneath their feet and his faces is as gnarled and old as the roots of the trees.

"Why have you called us here?" he asks, and his voice rolls like thunder.

"We've come to seek a boon," Sam answers, hoping he gets this right, the archaic words strange on his tongue. "My brother is a soldier, grievously wounded in battle--"

"I see no wounds," one of the horsemen calls out, and a few of the riders cackle.

The Horned God raises a hand and silence falls. "The hunt cannot be stopped."

"We don't wish to stop it," Sam says.

"Speak for yourself," Dean mutters, and Sam elbows him in the ribs.

The Horned God dismounts and looks them over slowly, his eyes dark and far-seeing. Sam shivers under his regard, ridiculously aware of his bare feet and tousled hair, and the row of tiny holes in the v-neck of his t-shirt.

"I see," he says finally, and the thing is, Sam believes he does. "You have power in you. Why have you not destroyed your enemies and taken what you want?"

Dean looks at him, eyebrows raised as if to say, good question, or possibly, you can do that?

Sam shifts and resists the urge to scratch the back of his neck. "I, uh, I don't know how."

The Horned God sighs, and though he doesn't say it, the pitiful humans vibe is clear. "You are hunters."

"Yes."

"As such, you have been dedicated to my service, and are thus entitled to my protection against your enemies."

"Yes." Sam barely breathes, his whole body tense with hope. Dean's hand on his shoulder tightens painfully.

After a silent, endless moment, the Horned God inclines his head once. "I accept your petition, and grant you my protection."

Sam bows his head in return. "Thank you."

"I look forward to the day you join our company," the Horned God says. "Until such time, stay safe. And make no more deals with demons. I may not be in such a kindly mood next time."

He swings himself back up onto his monstrous horse and leads the hunt away. Sam sees a figure that might be Walt McBride in the middle of the pack, free of breathing machines and emphysema, and then they're back in Bobby's spare bedroom, and all the candles have gone out.

"Did that really just happen?" Dean asks, but they're both shivering, and their feet are dark with dirt from the forest floor.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah."

*

Sam doesn't sleep, spends what's left of the night sorting through Bobby's books, trying to make sure he didn't just jump them from the frying pan into the fire. Dean sits beside him, cleaning their weapons. Their shoulders bump occasionally, and Sam lets himself relax a little--not completely, because they're not out of the woods yet, but a little, enough to enjoy the fact that he and Dean are alive and together, and going to stay that way for as long as they can possibly manage.

Dean starts out annoyed, but as the hours pass, he loosens up a little, too. He's never been able to stay mad at Sam for long. He grins at Sam over the barrel of a gun, starts telling dirty jokes while he's sharpening the knives, and even though it distracts Sam from his reading, he knows he can't live without it.

Bobby doesn't seem surprised to see them sitting at the kitchen table when he gets up. "Heard those hounds again last night," he says. "And there's dirt all over the floor in your room. Do I want to know what dumbass thing you boys did this time?"

"It was all Sam's idea," Dean says. But there's pride mixed in with the annoyance, so Sam snorts but doesn't put full force behind his glare.

"Your friends have been calling up the wild hunt," Sam says. "I asked Karl to tell me how it was done."

"The wild hunt? Jesus, Sam, I knew you were desperate but--"

"It worked," Sam says, cutting off what he's sure would have been a long and profanity-laced diatribe about the stubbornness and stupidity of Winchesters and their desire to sacrifice themselves for each other. It's not like he hasn't heard it before, though it's usually been directed at Dean or Dad. He feels kind of warm and fuzzy that maybe he's finally earned it on his own.

"We think, anyway," Dean says. He shrugs and grimaces. "I suppose this means I'm gonna have to learn to ride a horse." He takes a sip of coffee and then grins. "Chicks still dig horses, right?"

Bobby snorts, disbelief mingled with affection, and Sam laughs, too. Dean beams, pleased, and Sam knows that whatever else happens (and the possibility of spending eternity with the wild hunt comes to mind), it was worth it to keep Dean out of hell.

end

~*~


End file.
